Blue Moon
by Sister Coyote
Summary: Elena danced only very, very rarely. Elena/Tseng.


Elena had learned to dance for two reasons. First, it was one of many skills that all Turks were expected to pick up well enough to fake, because they needed to be able to operate in such a wide variety of situations without standing out. Second, her mother never—despite all evidence to the contrary—quite gave up the idea that _one_ of her daughters would act like a lady, and that had meant dancing lessons. (Her sister had been saddled with embroidery and flute lessons.)

She danced only very, very rarely.

* * *

"Rufus has an important event at the New Excelsior Midgar Hotel," Tseng said. The New Excelsior Midgar was, ironically, in Edge, because the infrastructure in Midgar was still too tenuous to supply an entire hotel's need for utilities and supplies. "There has been a credible assassination threat, so all of us will be on duty."

"We can't cancel?" Reno asked.

Tseng grimaced, as though this was a discussion he had already had, and for longer than he liked. The expression was brief, and then his expression settled again into its usual unshakableness. "No," he said. "I suggested as much to Rufus, but he insists that the occasion is too important for the company."

"Fancy dress for everyone, then," Reno drawled.

"Damn," Elena said.

* * *

She felt like a pigeon in peacock feathers, in the dresses expensed to the company that she wore for these events. The men got off easily, she thought dourly; they just had to wear a tuxedo, which was, in a way, very much like a suit. It had an impersonal uniformity, and looked pretty good on most people. There was a lot more room to fuck up in a dress. This one was dark green silk—they'd at least stopped trying to put her in the extremely fashionable black-on-black brocades, which made her fair complexion look at best washed out and at worst deader than Vincent Valentine—and cut almost too low in the back, with a skirt loose enough for dancing, or, for that matter, running, or kicking someone in the kneecaps.

"Are you sure I can't wear a tux too?" she'd asked Tseng when the dress had arrived from the tailor. (At least the shoes were good—flat suede things with a sole that even provided some traction—because she refused, categorically and with expletives, to wear heels on a job. Ever.)

"I wish you could," he said. "I'd rather you had that much freedom of movement—but you would stand out. It's best not."

Still, she had to admit, studying herself in the mirror to make sure her holster wasn't noticeable under the dress, she looked pretty good. She could only manage the most minimalist makeup, and she was going to have to hope that her lack-of-hairstyle could pass for 'simple elegance,' but the dress was a good color, and comfortable, and made her look taller than she was, which pleased her.

* * *

The event itself, of course, was deadly dull. There was nothing to do but make vapid conversation, try to keep an eye on Rufus without making it obvious that she was keeping an eye on Rufus, and think up creative ways to turn down requests to dance. (Actually, dancing would have been considerably less boring than conversation, since the jazz band playing the event was excellent and she found herself tapping her foot from time to time—but her potential partners were all rich, shallow young men who probably couldn't speak any other languages or crack a safe or anything, and also it was easier to cast an eyeball over Rufus from time to time if she was stationary.)

Reno wandered by and handed her a cup of punch. She considered sniffing it, but—Reno was annoying, but he was a professional. He wouldn't spike her drink when she was on duty. (Off-duty, all bets were most assuredly off.) "Having fun?" he asked.

"Ha," she said. "You?"

He shrugged. Then he said, "Watch out, boss coming this way," and lifted the cup deftly from her hand again. She turned, and there was Tseng.

His tuxedo suited him considerably better than her dress suited her. In fact, he looked really good in a way that was going to be really, really distracting for the rest of the night: his aristocrat's profile, his hair drawn back at the nape of his neck, his eyes very serious.

Tseng put out his hand and said, "Shall we?" and she put her hand in his and let him draw her out on the floor. Her hand settled comfortably on his shoulder, his on her waist and then sliding around to the small of her back to pull her almost too close for propriety. She could feel every movement of his body telegraphed by the shifting of his muscles, and he swept her lightly along, and she let him. He was a good lead, for all that she usually hated having to follow. There was some purpose to this, she knew perfectly well, but for a moment it was just dancing, and it felt good. Rare, warm, and embarrassingly good, his hand on her back, his eyes on her face.

He tucked her head gently against his shoulder, and then—she'd been waiting for this—said in an utterly professional whisper, "Northeast corner of the room. Brown hair, beard. Nervous. Fiddling with something in his pocket."

"Amateur," she said. "Explosive?"

"Most likely."

"I'm on it," she said. She broke away from Tseng with the appropriate apologetic noises for benefit of those around, and swept her way off the dance floor, to the edges of the room.

Sure enough, a man fitting Tseng's description had his hand deep in his jacket pocket and briefly pulled out a round copper shape before jamming it back in—all nerves. She thought _Amateur_, again, rather disdainfully, and slipped up beside him. "Excuse me, sir," she said brightly. "Care to dance?"

"I'm busy," he said shortly, and she shrugged and moved as though to pass behind him—then drew her gun and pressed it into his kidneys.

"Let go of the bomb in your pocket," she said, "and pull your hands out, and then head for the antechamber to your left. Do it quickly."

"You won't shoot in here," he said. "Anyway, I could blow you—"

"Couldn't," she said cheerfully. "I saw your little toy. It's a Tyson and Saunders M-19 Light Explosive, and it takes two hands to trigger, and if your other hand moves an inch I'll put a bullet through your kidneys. Believe it."

He hissed.

"That's why I prefer their M-33 Light Explosives, or the Stasingraud 582. One-hand trigger, no waiting. Head for the door."

Rude was waiting when she got inside, and between the two of them, they took care of the problem.

When it was all over, the party was over, too. Reno had taken the boss back to his apartment; Rude followed to provide extra security tonight, in case someone else tried to finish what the would-be assassin started. She gave the report to Tseng.

" . . . And then we disposed of the body in the hotel furnace," she said. She wiped gunpowder residue from her hands onto her skirts before remembering that they were silk.

"Neatly handled," he said, which from him was high praise. Then he smiled, which, combined with the fact that he looked damn good tonight to _begin_ with, pretty much made her heart stop. "You missed the end of the party."

"I think I'll cry myself to sleep."

"We can't have that, can we?" he said lightly. "At least I can offer to finish the dance."

She didn't quite dare breathe, not sure if he was joking. He held out his hand. She wasn't wholly sure it was a good idea, but . . . when had she ever let that stop her? She slid her fingers into his and let him pull her back against him, to the phantom strains of jazz music.


End file.
